


At the Office

by DoctorPea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nipple Play, Open Relationships, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorPea/pseuds/DoctorPea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immaculately tidy Mycroft, bent over his immaculately tidy desk, being shagged into next week and loving it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Office

**Author's Note:**

> Written before series two aired.

John exhales and shifts his weight more to his left leg. Beneath him, Mycroft shudders faintly. John tries to come to terms with the situation, with the long, pale body stretched out before him, and fails. There must have been a definite point in time, he thinks, when things had started to go wrong and eventually culminated in this moment, Mycroft bent over his expensive desk, trousers and pants around his ankles, and John balls-deep in his arse. Some little part of John’s brain panics at that, but Mycroft sighs and pushes back, hard, and John decides to stop thinking altogether.

Mycroft is surprisingly responsive to John’s slow, languid thrusts, arching his back and moaning softly. Entranced by the pale, lightly freckled back shifting and twisting under his hands, John leans down and licks a wet stripe up along Mycroft’s spine.

“Bite.” Mycroft’s voice is hoarse.

With a groan, John obeys. Leaning forward, he starts at the left shoulder, feels the trapezius muscle beneath the skin, tense no doubt from long hours spent at his desk. The very desk he is now bent over. John tells his brain to shut up. Thrusting faster, Johns licks and kisses the delicate skin of Mycroft’s neck, feels the pulse hammer just under his lips. He nuzzles behind his ear and at the base of his skull, until all he can taste and feel and smell is _Mycroft_ and his mind becomes fuzzy with need. The skin of Mycroft’s sides looks so soft and sensitive that John can’t resist sinking his teeth into it. The rasping, gravelly groan he hears in response has John bite there again and again, until Mycroft’s entire left side is dotted with red teeth marks from his shoulder all the way down to his hipbone.

“Harder, John. Don’t underestimate me.”

“Right,” John breathes and suddenly it’s as if a plug has been pulled from John’s mind and it’s flooded with images of possibilities John had never allowed himself to dwell on - there’s him spanking Mycroft’s gorgeous arse until it is crimson and radiating heat. Or he’s having Mycroft ride him, legs splayed wide, moaning like a whore, grinding shamelessly against John, who digs his fingernails roughly into Mycroft’s thighs. Yet another image has John tie him down on a bed, gagged and blindfolded, as he slowly and deliberately fucks Mycroft until he’s whimpering with desperation –

“John.” It’s a reminder and reassurance and warning all mashed up in one raspy word.

John reacts, almost without thinking, grasps a handful of Mycroft’s shockingly soft hair and pulls. When Mycroft’s chest is sufficiently arched, John wedges a hand between chest and desk and pinches the right nipple, hard. Mycroft all but comes apart at that.

“Again, _please_.”

Intrigued, but mindful not to let this end so soon, John stops thrusting for a moment and runs his hand over Mycroft’s chest, simply enjoying the feel of silky skin and soft hairs under his fingertips. He rakes his fingernails all the way down to the groin and back up again, until Mycroft’s front is completely covered in bright red lines, from the base of his cock to his collarbones. Ever so often, John pauses and gives the hard nipples a tweak, which draws the most stunning, rumbly moans from deep within Mycroft’s chest.

By now, Mycroft is a shuddering, moaning wreck, grinding savagely against John and gripping the edge of the table for leverage. John takes a moment to remember that this is Mycroft Holmes, bucking and moaning and all but begging for more. Mycroft Holmes, who probably came into this world fully formed and in a three-piece suit. Mycroft Holmes, not only one of the most powerful men on this planet, but also one of the most infuriatingly _proper_ people John has ever met. And yet, here they are, both sweaty and rumpled and lust-crazed and John is delighted to discover that underneath all the tweed and the enigmatic smile, Mycroft Homes is just another human being.

John doesn’t delude himself into thinking that he is the first or the only person ever to have accomplished seeing Mycroft like this. But this moment, right here and right now, is irrefutably his and John intends to savour it as fully as possible. Left hand braced on the desk, John slows down his thrusts with the last bit of control he has left, reaches down and starts fisting Mycroft’s cock agonizingly slowly. A satisfied smirk crosses his face at the low and desperate noises Mycroft makes, and the way he spreads his legs as wide as the pants around his ankles allow. John tortures him a bit more, drawing out both their orgasms, until he takes pity and picks up speed again. Mycroft pushes back even harder than before, and comes with a guttural shout all over John’s hand. Desperate for his own release, John holds onto the edge of the desk with both hands and slams hard and fast into Mycroft, whose muscles still twitch around John’s cock, and finally comes with a blinding intensity that hits him like a bullet and knocks the wind out of him.

\---

When John can finally distinguish his own body parts from Mycroft’s again, he slowly pulls out, tosses the condom in the bin under the desk, and slumps on the floor in an undignified pile. Mycroft stretches luxuriously and John can’t help but let his eyes roam over his body one last time.

“Well, that _was_ rather nice, wasn’t it?” Mycroft sounds alarmingly _chipper_ as he dresses, quickly and efficiently.

John blinks once, and suddenly Mycroft back to his usual, impeccably proper self. If he didn’t remember it rather vividly, John thinks, he would never believe that this man had just been buggered within an inch of his life. He gets up and puts his clothes back on.

“Are you quite alright? You shoulder isn’t causing you pain again?”

Somehow, John still hasn’t quite got used to the tone of genuine affection and concern in Mycroft’s voice when it’s directed at him, and not Sherlock.

“No, thanks. It’s– I mean, there’s really no... I’m fine.”

Mycroft is smiling one of those smiles again, the ones that make John feel self-conscious and safe at the same time. They also do strange, quivering things to his stomach, but John prefers not to dwell on that. Mycroft turns around to straighten out the things on his desk, and the moment is over.

“I must say, John, you are quite extraordinarily good at this. I am lucky,” he adds, with a devilish smirk, “that my brother and you are so… inclusive.”

“Please, can we not talk about this, this– ” John gestures at the universe at large.

“Arrangement?” Mycroft supplies.

“What ever this is. Can we not talk about it just now?”

“Of course. Would you care for some tea, John?” Yes, definitely chipper, John thinks, veering dangerously towards jovial.

“Oh. Er, thanks,” John replies, out of habit more than anything. Besides, it's probably rude to decline post-coital tea.

\---

Later that day, Sherlock’s phone beeps the opening motif of Beethoven’s Fifth.

_Dearest brother,_

_You were off by fifteen minutes. Do try to give John more credit. The muscles of his right leg and the wound in his shoulder are steadily improving – he is also rather eager to please._

_Attached, you find a link; I thought you would perhaps care to compare techniques._

_\- MH_

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment to fully appreciate how much he hates his brother right now. First of all, John’s psychosomatic limp had shown a slight recurrence that week so it was safe to assume that any prolonged physical exertion would be inevitably cut short. Secondly, he has seen far more than he wanted in John’s face and posture when he’d returned to the flat. Annoyed, Sherlock gets up, picks up his violin, fiddles with the pegs for a bit, throws it down on the armchair, paces in front of the fireplace and finally collects himself and sits down again to click on the link.

Thank God it’s his turn tomorrow.


End file.
